In the Presence of Thine Enemies
by Sam-Sam-Samedi
Summary: In their web of deceit, it was inevitable they would weave together. Guy and Van exploratory fic.


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**Title:** In the Presence of Thine Enemies

**AN: **Disclaimer still holds true. :D I don't own Tales of the Abyss, nor any of its characters.

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"I don't know anything about Hod," the maid responded dully, laundry dripping from her arms in a towering mass, colors beckoning to daylight from their darkened depths. "But don't talk about it; the place sunk into the ocean, its freakish! What if, you know," she paused, voice low and muddled, jittery beneath her silence, "--something comes to kill the Duke?! I would be out of work, like him or not!"

Guy said nothing in response, young and stretched in the clutches of adolescences, his hair an unruly mop of fine blonde and his eyes an electric blue, sparking with intense clarity. The manor was cleared and the flowers fresh, their petals aglow with the lights of morning rain, dew glinting in the foreign intrusion of sun; storms had ravaged Kimlasca's Baticul for a good three days, shaking its foundation with chilling winds and lost earth. Black wisps of cloud loomed in the distance as a fair warning.

"Besides, why be curious? You're Kimlascan-- the Hod war caused tons of problems for us civilians," she continued, motioning for him to hurry, his feet dragging with the added weight of the clothes basket. "Do you like history?"

". . . No," he said and she frowned, shrugging the subject away and spiraling into indifference-- Guy felt hot under her scrutiny; he was a veteran here, having managed to survive two years without quitting or being fired (the Duke knew that changing employees was money saved, lest he run the risk of becoming attached to his help more than his income) after charming the Fabre's son into doting submission, and many turned to him for (admittedly bad) guidance. It seemed that no one believed the "err, Luke just liked me" card-- apparently he wasn't impressive enough for that.

"Hmm," she mused, lingering at the foot of the stair steps as Guy reached her, and climbed for the porch. "Is the Duke's son a good kid?"

Guy paused, shrugging, "I. . . guess it kind of depends on what you find good or not. He's not awful, but there's no getting around how demanding he is."

"Haha, it sounds as though he annoys you."

"Not really," he insisted, dropping the basket and groping for the handle, pulling the door open for her. "There you go; sorry."

"Don't apologize for taking too long, you're still opening the door anyway," she grinned, laugh contagious and reminiscent of a unique individuality.

"Hmm," he answered, the two bolting the length of the hall in brisk, long strides. "Yeah, but, err, he's okay I guess."

"I wonder why he took such a liking to _you_?" She questioned, tossing the clothes away to be folded. A fellow maid cursed her clumsiness, the woman unfortunate enough to have walked in on the waterfall of pants, blouses, dresses, and undergarments.

"He's not really," Guy hesitated, "selective. He doesn't mind people."

"Well, I've heard his father isn't the most affectionate daddy to have ever existed."

Guy beamed, "Ha, yeah, there's no arguing with that."

"Anyway, about Hod," he blinked back surprise, facing her, "Don't bother with it. The Duke wouldn't stand to hear his good ol' war stories flung around."

"She's probably correct," the voice was serious, subdued, and dark, suggestive of black velvet. The two went rigid, the baskets teetering dangerously forward before they caught themselves. Both bowed their heads in polite respect, the man in front of them tall, his face deep and shadowed, blue eyes luminous, skin tanned, and his hair a light brown.

"Grants Sir!" Aline resounded, her voice cutting. "Are you well? Can we help you with anything?"

His eyes were slit in amusement and he smiled, "There is no need. I'm doing well; Hod is a topic that I find. . . fascinating-- I apologize for my rudeness, forgive me."

Guy's eyes went plate-wide, a deep curiosity, even confusion, playing across his features, "Uh-- well . . . do you know anything about Hod?" Aline shot him daggers, her scowl flashing brief and dangerous, desperate that they abandon this authority head as soon as possible.

"Well, sir," she forced, shaking her head. Grants nodded his understanding, and she twirled on her heels. "I must attend to my work. Excuse me."

". . . I studied it for a short time," he looked him over, "A Kimlascan, questioning the war-zone Hod? Surprising. What do you want to know?"

Guy silenced all his queries, "Huh. It sank into the ocean, right? Any idea how that happened?"

His expression was thoughtful, "Nothing has been finalized, but the Duke took the Gardios mansion and supposedly destroyed its area from the inside out. The sepiroth tree there may have been affected as a result; many parties have argued the involvement of outside forces and foul-play-- currently none of these theories have been proven correct."

"I guess there's no justification then," Guy murmured, despondent beneath the anger creeping into his voice.

"I've seen much in my lifetime, and justification is not needed in war," Grants replied, Guy suddenly jolted from his inner musings.

"But," Guy answered, distanced, "the victims don't stop wanting it."

Grants' response was prolonged silence, ". . . Interesting." They were interrupted by a sharp pang in the surrounding quiet, a White Knight summoning him from the gardens. "If you have any more questions, I'll be happy to answer them later." Guy didn't turn to him, but the man seemed to have words still on his tongue.

"Yeah-- nice to meet you," Guy bade him a stunned good-bye. He had wanted answers since childhood, and asked for them in cheap displays of sad ignorance, but Pere was loathe to speak of it, haunted by a ghost that was broken behind his old eyes.

* * *

Luke, a short, sticky child of nine (or proudly proclaimed "nine and a half") years, wandered the courtyard of the Fabre Manor, cheerfully collecting rocks and loosely scattered remnants of the storm a day past. Guy was straddled across the deck of Luke's shed, staring at the dark wood of the overhead roof—it was a chamber hidden within a house, tossed to the north side, curiously over-looking its fellow walls with a sense of removal. Or, more accurately, it was never connected to begin with.

"Guy!" He managed, thrusting a torn azalea head towards him, still newly wet and glistening a deep magenta pink. "Do you think Natalia would like this?"

"Yep," he responded; Natalia fussed over anything Luke gave to her, including pathetic, pointless things.

"You didn't even look!"

Guy gave the flower a dispassionate glance, and then turned away again, "Yep."

Luke scrambled next to him, carefully pushing his gift far away, as not to damage it. He paused, and studied the elder boy, expression comically thoughtful, ". . . What's the matter?"

"Don't think too hard," he heaved. "You might hurt yourself."

Luke was used to being shunted to the side, and he smiled, Guy left begrudgingly admiring his optimism, "You always say that. Where do you want to go?"

"I don't care," he waited patiently for Luke to either wear out, or have his enthusiasm dampened.

"We could," Luke struggled, timid, "go look at the fontech seller man. Natalia could come, too. Maybe Father could give us money."

The idea was tempting, and Guy drowned his fantasies in pessimism, "Just because I'm a servant doesn't mean I need your charity, Luke. You know that."

"Maybe—it could be a birthday present, yeah, that would be good! You're born on. . . Loreleiday, Ifrit-Decan. . . the forty-first?" Guy laughed, the sound an embittered and sad choke.

"Good guess," it was unnerving to hear his enemy's son glorify the day both his family and he had died, acting as if it was a good thing he'd been born.

Luke beamed, "I knew it, though. That's good, right?" Guy said nothing in response, eyes narrowed as he watched the dirt beneath the roof tiles and chipped mahogany.

"Duke Fabre," he murmured, their silence cracked, "will be pissed if you do that. Don't bother, I'm just a servant anyway." Guy felt that excuse roll off his tongue, leaving disgust in its wake. His words were so worn, as if suggestive of a melody that lost its beat and was mocking its dying chorus.

Luke flashed uncertainty, but it was smothered in disappointed smiles, "Oh. . . Okay." Guy nodded his agreement, and collected himself, leaving Luke to play alone. The halls of the Manor were abandoned and made of prison stone, the glint of armor writhing in the dark of midday. His footfalls were muffled by the flowing, cavernous fabric of the red carpet below, and he wandered to his room—a hollow that was the epitome of the Manor itself, nothing more than a building made to detain, freedom stifled in its secretively built mass of dry wall and dusty ornaments.

He fingered the bronze of the doorknob, and watched the distorted reflection gaze back at him—the opening revealed a room cut in two halves, empty and desolate on the right, fontech scattered across the blank floorboards. Its left side was shrouded in newborn flowers and leaves, and brimming with the jollity of carefully organized clutter.

Guy wondered why two people of the same home could possibly be so different in their decorating taste. He'd asked Pere once, and he answered something like, "Life should be fragrant." Yet Guy had stopped clearing stuff out for himself after being forced on Luke; his floor was so unclean, and he simply lacked the time to get it picked up, Guy supposed.

Then again, he still didn't feel like doing anything now, either. Maybe that was why it was so dirty. Guy hesitated, the door shutting with a sharp clasp, slow and wavering; he frowned, the Kimlasca emblem hung over his graying mattress shuddering with the movement. Its cloth fingers reached low, grazing the surface of his bed frame with the edge of its sharp tip, lined in gold and drowning in dimmed maroon.

He gaped and it snaked into unmoving silence, falling to rest upon the wall; he thought about how he was always afraid of Pere and himself being discovered by the Duke, and put to a public death as the enemies that escaped Kimlascan wrath. He knew that he hated that pennant staring blankly back at him—but he hated the Duke, Luke, Princess Natalia, Kimlasca, King Ingobert, Malkuth, and Peregynt, too.

He hated lots of things, and felt it pointless to list them all; it wouldn't matter anyway. In spite of himself, Guy made his way to the bed and climbed atop it, where he grasped the loose material, felt it rough and callous beneath his hands, and tossed it blindly upwards. It slammed with hushed dullness, the thud trapped in the dust behind it. He glared, and threw it again, the ugly thing sliding the wall's length before falling free. Frustrated, Guy aimed for anything it could catch on, because, with it gone, he wouldn't be threatened by it any longer.

The nail it found tore it awkwardly across the fold, and he felt satisfied with that.

* * *

Days quickly became weeks in the Fabre Manor. Its mundane routine unraveled into stretches of time, ending with midnight's coming and beginning with the faded shine of day. Amidst his tedious morning customs, the Butler-whose-name-he-never-really-remembered had kindly requested that he return the pennant to its original state. Guy had ignored him (following his polite acknowledgement of the demand, of course), and was choosing to avoid him, being as the man made of point of loudly proclaiming to his superiors that he never particularly liked "that Cecil boy" to begin with. He figured his indifference was served justly.

"Guy?" Luke cheeped, as bizarrely amiable as ever, and Guy managed an impassive, languid turn of the head.

"Huh?" He muttered, heavy-eyed and weighed with sleep.

"Do you want to go with Natalia and me later today? I'm not exactly sure what you'll do, but. . ." His voice spluttered into nothing and Guy furrowed an eyebrow in reply.

"It won't kill me," he answered, this opportunity a convenient excuse to abandon work.

"Huh?" Luke was high-pitched, his squeal cutting the air, "You'll really go?! You never go anywhere with me!"

"Then why did you ask. . ." Guy huffed, retreating into an insulted and morose silence. '_Not that it isn't true'_, he reminded himself, _'but it sounded bad when Luke said it out loud.' _Then again, he felt twisted playing games with the Duke's son. It was despicable, and practically criminal, by his standards. Guy liked who he liked and hated who he hated; there was no in-between.

Luke was pleased, pushing the chair away, a sharp scratch echoing from the tormented wood panels below. He leapt down and seemed to bolt left, then stopped before rushing the opposite, hurrying to find his loser of a father.

Guy turned away, watching the sun shimmer in the distance, filtered by the bulky curtains pulled across the length of the glass. _'What the hell is wrong with him. . .'_ He mused to dead air, his elbow propped up and chin in his hand.

". . . Luke?" He tensed, the voice familiar. Guy pieced his shattered composure, and turned to face the visitor, his heart still rapid in his chest; the sensation of fear was never far from him, and devious appearances were high among his lists. (The maids deeply enjoyed grabbing him from behind, and he seemed to always fall prey to their traps. He didn't think they knew what effect they had, so he forgave them. Mostly.)

"Um, sir?" Guy felt sheepish, Grants gaze whirling on him, a disturbed shock playing across his stoic features; in the rush of reflex, Guy had nearly slammed against the wood in a jumble of jittered, desperate nerves. "May I help you with anything?"

Grants said nothing, ". . . Perhaps it would be more appropriate if I were to ask you that."

"Ah. . ." he mumbled, "haha, yeah . . . sorry."

"I suppose I must be more frightening than even I would have guessed," there was a lace of gray humor, and Guy wished he could sink into the cushioned dining chair and disappear. Explaining his fear was a chore in itself. "What, if you don't mind, was the problem?"

"Uh," he began, a twinge of irritated indecision creeping inside the words, "I have gy—you. . . surprised me, I guess." It felt pointlessly stupid to explain a morbid fear of women being the trigger, particularly when the listener was a guy; he would have to dive into the many details of his actions, and calmly clarify that his body reacted to the sensation of someone behind him in preparation (in case it was a girl, which it often was). Why did he have to have such a pathetic, stupid fear anyway? _'Damn it.'_

"Then I apologize," Grants insisted, tone warmly inviting. "You are the child from before, if I am not mistaken."

Some part of him muttered an annoyed 'crap!', "Oh, right—we met outside."

"I'm afraid I did not properly introduce myself," he continued, Guy entertaining the idea that it wasn't necessary, the man being so high above him in status. "My name is Van Grants."

"Ah, yeah—"he swallowed, still panicky, the adrenaline failing to wear off, "I'm Guy Cecil."

There was a long-lived and uncomfortable silence, "Are you a friend of Luke's?"

'_No,'_ his mind responded; he grinned, "Yeah—he's an alright kid."

"I see," Van retorted to the still air, his tone lukewarm and somewhat lost—Guy sulked, and thought that, if he was going to ask, he could at least pretend to be interested. _This_ sort of noble always agitated him. "He mentions you often."

"He probably mentions you more," he sighed, the answer honest. Van flashed a rare smile, scheming in its appearance.

"That sounds like Luke," he was terse, betrayed by a small amusement.

"Ah, well," Guy said, misleadingly cordial, "I really should get back to work! Nice talking to you." He hurried past him, internally mourning his sudden loss of some much-needed relaxation. He felt his eyes upon him as he darted past, and they remained there until he disappeared far into the corridor.

Luke would return to silence, burdened with confused eyes and the soft, telling smirks of devils.

* * *

Guy pulled the sword from the sheath, its leather taut and engraved with mock battle-scars; he was hassled into training with the both of them, the suggestion a feeble plea to comfort the explosive, angry Kimlascan princess at his side. Scoffing, he turned away, watching the leaves twirl in a bland dance with the wind. Honestly, he would ignore her on his good days, as she often made a game out of his self-confidence.

"Very good Luke—you've improved," Grants added. Guy found it laughable that Luke could 'improve' when his sword was the length of his body.

"Thank you Master!" Luke chirped, completely enamored with Van, and he would have frowned, but he didn't have energy worth wasting.

"Luke!" Natalia whined, dignified in her complaints, "Why not come with me? It is impolite to make promises that you don't keep. . ." She trailed off, voice broken.

"I thought Luke didn't make promises. . ." Guy muttered, Natalia's head whipping his way, her face outraged and twisted with frustration.

"Guy! Be quiet!" She snapped.

_'Will do. . .'_ He waved the thought away, attention drifting to the false peace of the manor around him. "My apologies Your Highness. I meant no harm."

"Master Van doesn't visit often, Natalia!" Luke grinned, and Van answered it with a good-natured interest of his own. "So, this once should be okay."

"Oh. . ." She managed, crestfallen, "I see. . . perhaps you're right. . ." It bordered on depressing; she seemed to have lost all her fire, unfortunately, and Luke wasn't noticing that (but Natalia wasn't _Guy's_ problem. She had her own image to concentrate on, and he figured she would be offended if a "servant" made an effort to defend her).

"Luke, that's enough," Van's dictum was final, "Feel free to escort Princess Natalia as she wishes." He gestured for the pair to leave, Natalia rushing to stand. She grabbed Luke's hand, nearly jerking him in her enthusiasm, and he answered her attention with an aggrieved cheerfulness.

"Guy!" Natalia rang, jolting him from his indulgence, "You should be assisting Sir Grants! You are doing nothing—your laziness is insulting! Hmph! Come, Luke." Guy sighed, tumbling forward, _'. . . yeah, thanks princess.'_ It sounded two-faced from one whose sole responsibility was to criticize others amidst being pampered.

He shot them a passing glare, forcing himself to stand, and leaving Grants a spectator to the exchange. Guy reached for the first of a collection of multiple blades, all spread amongst the brick of the risen platform; their cold steel was polished in the light of day, and he wondered what possessed the Duke to give such access to weapons to children. It made sense, though. The man always was a cold-blooded murderer underneath his crawling, pale snake's skin.

"You don't really have to help," he offered, sincerely attempting to be considerate. Van paused, and glanced at the sword in his hands.

"I suppose you'd rather pick up after him yourself?" It was mocking, and Guy fumed with the knowledge that Van wasn't the one others threatened to sack for not working. Luke's astonishing favoritism was the only protection he had.

"I'm here to be put to work, you know," he hid beneath a mask of artificial cheer.

"It sounds disgraceful," Van remarked off-handedly, feeding to the deeply rooted fury Guy felt for most people.

"Haha, no denying that," he was controlled, "but, no one was born to be a servant."

Van's gaze swiveled on him again, ". . . That's incorrect—but beyond the point of our discussion. Why, then, are you here?"

He gulped, the sudden realization of his error eating at him, "Er, well . . . haha, isn't that a bit personal?"

Van was smothered in the drear of midday shadows, "By some standards, it may be."

He choked down his irritation, ruefully cursing Van beneath his breath, "I needed a job."

"The Duke isn't famed for paying well," he answered and crossed his arms, his stare as intensely stripping as before.

"It's hard to find people who will take in thirteen year olds," Guy worked to recover himself.

"There's varying factions of the Oracle Knights—I suppose safety was an issue," his eyes lingered on the blade in Guy's hands, "You seem to have some knowledge of warfare, more so than the common civilian. You fight in an. . . ." he stretched the syllables, as if in doubt as to where to begin, "interesting way."

Guy stiffened, insides bitterly cold, as if dread was ice water dripping down his spine, "It's not too unique. The gardener—you know him? I guess not-- learned it from a traveler—" it seemed the truth was rigid and close to snapping, Pere's style completely removed from the traditional. Hod was all the man had known, and Guy had to learn _something_ to stay alive when roaming over the Kimlascan wilderness. Homeless, robbed of all his funds, and studying the way of the vigilante, he didn't have the option to rely on everyone else to take care of him.

"When you are finished," Van began, motioning to the mess scattered beside him, "I am inviting you to walk with me."

"But I guess," He hissed, through gritted teeth, "that I don't have any choice as to whether I'm going or not."

He supposed Van must have fucking _bled_ indifference, "That's inaccurate, but, if that's how you feel." Guy cussed him out in a rewarding, broken loop inside his head, roughly tossing lethal decoration after lethal decoration into his arms, and then whisked them away to be left to gather dust again. Van echoed a dispassionate sympathy, recalling that they were blades, and he would be inconvenienced if Guy managed to kill himself with one. Not that someone who worked for the Duke would care if he died or not-- his opinion would change when he sold them out to his boss, the asshole_. 'Shit, maybe I should just go when—'_he cringed; what would happen to Pere, then? As a result of cowardice, would he have to die alone? Guy wasn't certain, and quietly answered Van's request, the closing of the gap between the drawing room and the courtyard reminiscent of walking the plank of a sinking ship.

"I have explained the situation to the Duke," Guy wilted—so he was dead already. "He agreed to dismiss you for the rest of the day."

"You asked him to pardon my absence?" He refused to believe it.

"I swear on the names of Yulia and Lorelei, that is _all _I asked," Van's strides were long and awkward, Guy trailing behind him, and suppressing the need to roll his eyes. _'Damn, if the Duke did that for me, I must have been dead __**last**__ week._' The man wasn't known for his acts of charity, and, in fact, most agreed that he was gifted no heart. They passed the warm reds and grays of the drawing room, Van guiding him across the entrance hall and into angry sunlight. The white knight keeping guard, pearl armor beaming with reflected gloss, stood at attention, saluting him as he passed.

Guy would have mustered a snort in badly concealed disrespect, having long since lost his faith in the white knights; they had the time to use their authority to make themselves out as disgusting pigs to the maids when they weren't, you know, systematically killing others (bastards). He imagined the Duke knew about it, but chose to respond with nothing.

"May I ask a question?" Van began, opening with an obvious interrogation. _'Damnit.'_

"Why not?" Guy mulled over his fighting ability and average speed, slowly realizing the joke that he was. He would be murdered, and then in every way _mauled _by Van's attacks, in death or not. He had bought into the illusion that Van was dimly mediocre when compared to the well-versed Pere, but now he understood that Luke was the only pitiful one, and Van had simply held back for him.

"You are Gaillardia Galan Gardios, are you not?" The pair wandered the lazy streets of Baticul's noblest, a soft drone of activity weaving through the iron and luxury.

"No," he was dry, "I can't say I know the name, even." Some part of him was rejected, and he discarded the haze of memory. It had been so long that someone had graced him with his true name; he could barely call it his anymore. Guy had always felt himself a failed noble, a failed son, and a failed man. Mary would be sad if she saw him now.

"Then I shall clarify," Van answered, smoothly, "You are the traveling counterpart of Peregynt, an underling of the late Count Zy—"

"--?! Why are you so loud?!" He growled, surveying the grounds with a twitchy distaste.

"It is fruitless to lie to both to the both of us," Van's reply was casual.

"I— you. . . what do you want from me?" It was spat in anger, and Van simply shrugged it away with the utmost normalcy.

"When I was a young man," he muttered, listless and wistful, "You would cry often."

"I—no, I wouldn't--!" Guy said nothing for a time, eyes traveling over Van, as if seeing him for the first time. "How did you. . . "

"I was once called Vandesdelca," Guy swallowed disbelief, "That was the time when I knew you."

"No. . ." he said to the walls, "You—he died. He died when Hod fell. _Everyone_ did. Besides—you work for the Duke! Why would someone—"

"If I recall, we are both alive and well, and are both currently in the service of Duke Fabre," Van's tone was straight forward and pulled from business conductions.

". . ." He stared him down, the shock pulsing through him pitifully stubborn, "Van, huh. . ."

"Neither you nor I are very talented with names," he slipped into exhaustion.

"So," Guy was breathless, "You're really Vandes-- . . .?"

"If I know myself well enough," Van agreed, patient with his surprise.

There was a silence between the two, comparable to those that passed between long-since separated relations (except Guy had thought everyone he cared about was dead, and thus it lasted longer). "I can't believe you're not really dead."

". . . Likewise," he murmured, "You've gotten taller. I'm surprised—you look so different now."

"Haha," he laughed, sound broken in his uncertainty, "It would probably be weird if I didn't."

"I imagine so," Van answered; silence stretched over the pair, uncomfortable in its alien sense of familiarity. There was a temptation to establish some kind of touch—understanding— but Guy found he was unable to put his feelings into actions. All he could manage was, _'it's been so long.' _

"So," he trailed into silence, eyes on the ageless gravel below, "What have you been doing?"

"I would not call it an astounding amount," Van murmured, his gentleness hoarse.

"Uh, I guess," Guy's tongue slipped, trying to catch his words, "You look like you're doing well for yourself."

"Apparently. And you?" it was said coolly, and Guy buzzed with the phantom whispers of lies; he forced the excuses to rest and silence, because he remembered now. They weren't the truth, no matter how much he stammered them to Kimlascans.

* * *

**AN:** The end. (I guess—c'mon, forgive me! It was getting way too long, man, and I'm lazy. D: )


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